Masquerade
by LadyMythGirl
Summary: Not is all it seems when it comes to Dr. Molly Hooper. When two new men pop up into her life, the Baker street duo is at a loss. They soon learn that there is even more duplicity to be had and a rather impressive amount of mayhem as well. Mycroft's interest in the new arrivals only peaks Sherlock's curiosity and soon it becomes clear: no one is going back to the way things were.
1. Appearances are Deceiving

Author's Note: Hello, dolls and fellas! This is the first story I've published in _years_. Granted it is just starting, but nonetheless, I am doing this! Yay! This is my first foray in the Sherlolly fandom, so please feel free to add any comments or words of wisdom!

Features of this story: I am going off the deep end a bit, I love the canon but I am am treading into AU for this. I know Molly's personality doesn't manifest as such, however, with her strong sense of loyalty and determination to do what she sees as _right_, I don't think my character expansion is a whole lot to ask. Let's just say my Molly was produced from a more...independent childhood?

This has not been Brit-picked by a native by any means and certainly not beta'd. Sorry!

Also, expect a handful of new characters, not to mention another "behind the scenes" organization. I am flying off the seat of my pants for the majority of this, so plot bunnies are appreciated as the chapters are rolled out.

Disclaimer: Yeah, pretty sure I am not ACD risen from the dead. Also, Moffet has so many fingers in so many pots, I'd be _shocked_ if he managed to find my little story and _proceed to flay me alive over it_. But then again, why chance it? I don't own, I only admire. And dream. And desire. And I need to lay off on the caffeine. NOT.

Enjoy!

lady_myth

Masquerade

Chapter 1

_Appearances are Deceiving_

Molly Hooper drummed her thumbs impatiently against the Formica countertop. She stared hard at the slow drip of the coffee maker, willing it to brew faster. She absently noted that the counter was chipped more than the day before, a sign that the cleaning lady had smashed her cart into it once again. The counter was also dipping strangely in the center and all at once Molly removed her hand, shaking it. It looked like the slab was being used as a tryst area again. Her thoughts turned to Dr. McDonald, the pediatrician, and the ICU nurse as they seemed like the most likely candidates. She stepped over to the staff room sink and scrubbed her fingers clean.

_Wouldn't Sherlock think I was being clever?_

She rolled her eyes at the thought. She dried her hands on a paper towel. She then rubbed at her face, pleased that she was able to do so without any fear of messing up any makeup. She glanced at her reflection in the small mirror above the sink and wrinkled her nose.

_God, I miss eyeliner._

She ran the pad of a finger underneath the line of low lashes and grumbled under her breath.

_Plain old Molly, be the mouse not the lioness._

She released a long breath. Thankful that the ancient coffee brewer was finally done, she poured herself a generous cup. She dumped an obscene amount of sugar into it and a dash of cream. After working a double shift the day before, and then staying up into the early morning hours to work on her laptop, she was currently running on fumes.

She didn't bother to blow on the scalding liquid, gulping down nearly a third of it.

"Heaven," she moaned, making her way out of the staff room and down to the bowels of St. Bart's. She paid little attention to the nurses, doctors, and patients that wandered the floors. She ducked in a dimly lit stairwell and hurried down.

_I've got all of that paperwork to do today in addition to the three autopsies that were assigned to me. If I skip lunch I'll be able to get everything done I'm sure. For once, I hope the three poor souls died of something innocuous, like a car accident or strangulation. Nothing that involves lab tests and additional scans. That way Sherlock won't be tempted to descend on the morgue, thus destroying any productivity I might accomplish!_

Molly huffed, knowing the odds were slim of her wishes being granted, especially when it came to the tall consulting detective that flittered in and out of her lab like he owned it. Granted, it was her own fault that he walked all over it and her, but she had a valid excuse! She really did! And it pissed her off that she had accepted the position and worked herself into the corner she now lived in.

_Three years! Three freaking years of this!_

She slammed the mortuary doors open, causing the medical students inside to shriek at the sound of the metal doors colliding into the tiled walls. Molly didn't send them any sort of an apology, stomping her way to her office. Once inside, she slammed the door shut behind, causing more shrieks. After a moment, she overheard them making nasty comments about her, all centered on her inability to get laid or her menstrual cycle. She felt her left eye twitch and immediately covered her face with a hand.

_Not good, not good! I better make sure I get plenty of rest tonight…after I beat the shite out of something._

It wouldn't do her any good to blow everything up now. She sat at the cramped desk, groaning at the piles of autopsy reports, lab results, and medical record requests. She wiggled her mouse, summoning her computer screen to life, before pulling down the topmost file. She absently turned on her mp3 and selected a playlist that she indulged in when she was alone. She had a shite ton of work to accomplish in a short amount of time. She settled, stretched out her interlaced fingers and cracked them. Time to get down.

**-M-**

She managed to complete about 95 percent of her paperwork in three hours, which was pretty damn impressive concerning all the interruptions she had to deal with since she sat down. She had essentially banned the medical students for two weeks due to their inappropriate handling of chemicals and the general mayhem they always caused.

A maniacal grin that had no business being on her face stretched her lips wide. _See if you pass your courses now!_

She wasn't going to lie and say she didn't enjoy making the students suffer a bit. Honestly, they were her only source of decent entertainment. The hours of a pathologist, and an assistant to a consulting sociopath, were not conducive to witnessing social entertainment anywhere else.

_When is it going to end?_

Molly was so tired of it all. Tired of not being able to alter a single thing about her life, not so long as she was under the eagle eyes of one Sherlock Holmes. He noticed _everything._ Well, that wasn't fair. He actually missed a lot when it came to her, but then again, it was _supposed_ to be that way. She grumbled, tugging at the ugly jumper she had donned that morning. While the thing was hideous, at least it kept her warm in the near frigid environment of the morgue. God, for one day though, she'd like to show up in a scarlet corset and black miniskirt and studded stilettos, just to see what he'd say.

She could feel his eerie blue green stare on her now. _'Good God Molly, so desperate for relations you've resorted to prostitution?'_

She actually giggled at the thought then slammed her hand against her forehead.

_Christ I need help. Let's get back to focusing on Mr. Morgan here._

She threaded her large hooked needle, intent on wrapping up her first autopsy of the day. She knew she could staple the heavy man back together, but she liked the personal touch and dignity of hand sewn sutures. Besides, she needed to keep up on her trauma skills. One never knew when someone might stumble into her flat, frantically needing her services. God, she wished she was joking!

She had just started stitching up Mr. Morgan's midsection when the main doors slammed open and in strutted the bane—center of her existence. Sherlock's suit coat was unbuttoned, flapping behind him in not quite as an impressive manner as his Belstaff coat would have been, giving her a clear view of the violet dress shirt that looked nearly painted on his lithe form. The missing coat was due to the warm summer weather they were just beginning to experience and the violet shirt…

Automatically, her cheeks began to heat up as her eyes took in his imposing, stalking form. She gulped, pulling her hands away from the corpse, turning all of her attention to the detective. Sherlock's ethereal eyes were gleaming with smugness and Molly had to bite her tongue not to roll her eyes.

_He wants something if he's wearing _that_. Heavens he's predictable!_

She let her hands start to shake as he stopped before her. Channeling her inner thirteen-year-old, she looked up at him moonily.

"Molly, dear, you have done something different with your hair."

_Oh, God! What did I do? Did I put it in pigtails? Shite!_

He cocked his head at her, "I like it."

Touching her side-parted ponytail, she almost breathed a sigh of relief, until her anger flared up.

_You liar! Nothing's changed, you just want—_

"T..tt..thank you." She stuttered, feeling her cheeks burn hotter with her fury. She hated how _false_ he was!

_If only he knew the truth._

Sherlock suddenly frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. Molly blinked up at him, uncomprehending. Just then Dr. Watson hurried in through the doors.

"Afternoon, Mols, I was wondering…blimey! Is that _Rob Zombie_ I hear?" John looked stunned, before grinning, "You got quite the sense of humor girl!"

Molly's mask slipped long enough to show her utter confusion before she listened to the strumming electric guitar and heavy pounding of a piano. She exhaled her breath in a fiery hiss. It was the song _House of 1000 Corpses._

"Thanks, John." She quickly unpeeled her gloves, tossed them, and hurried off to shut off her mp3 player. Once in the privacy of her own office, she slammed her hand against her forehead again.

_Stupid, stupid! He's never heard you play anything else but classical before! You fool!_

While most people would mark her music choices as just an eclectic appreciation of different genres, Sherlock would see it as something out of character for her and therefore suspicious. He was under the impression that he knew her well after all, especially after living with her for a brief time after his 'death'.

She could hear his voice in her head: _youngest pathologist to work at St. Bart's. Higher than average level of intellect. Age 31. Single. Cat person. In love with love, romance, anything fluffy and cute. Listened to gentle soothing music and reality telly. Shy, introverted, and insecure. Totally infatuated with him._

She gnawed on her lower lip. She had a job to do and she had not worked three years to blow it all away in this moment. She scuttled out of her office and back to Sherlock, finding him seated at his favorite microscope, fiddling with the settings.

"Ah, yes. Now that we have peace and quiet, fetch me coffee. Black with two sugars." Sherlock effortlessly commanded. Molly _just_ managed to _not_ reach forward and slam his head against the protruding eyepiece of the scope.

"Uh, Molly, you don't need to—" John protested waving at her.

Molly plastered a deliriously happy grin onto her face, "Oh no! It's no problem! Be back in a bit!"

She flew out of the morgue and up the stairs to the cafeteria, counting the number of ways she could murder Sherlock and hide his body. No one would ever know where she had put him, not even Mycroft with 'Her Royal Majesty's great Government' behind him. Even with her helping to 'kill' Sherlock last year, which John had nicknamed 'the Fall' on his blog, no one would think that she had enough brains to pull off his murder solo.

She knew that the rest of her shift was ruined. She would have to stay after she clocked out and work unpaid so she wouldn't have a crappy day tomorrow, otherwise her work would snowball out of control until it ended up being a completely crap week. Sherlock had the look of wasting _hours_ of her time, most of it with her probably expending energy completing menial tasks he viewed as beneath him. Like fetching coffee.

_God damn it, why did I agree this? Easy my arse!_

She entered the cafeteria and retrieved two cups of coffee, mixing them to Sherlock's and John's preferences. She started back downstairs, grumbling under her breath at the inaccuracy of the notes in the file she had been given. She tried chanting a soothing mantra in her head, but found it impossible to banish her irritation.

_I really need to get some sleep_.

She reentered the morgue, finding Sherlock peering intently into the ears of Mr. Morgan with a huge magnifying glass. She resisted rolling her eyes up the ceiling in exasperation.

"Molly have you the toxicology report handy?" Sherlock asked before she had even set the cups of coffee down.

Molly handed John his cup, smiling at his quietly muttered thanks, before turning to face the detective.

"Of course. Just a moment." Molly set his cup down and went back to her office. She yanked the file out viciously, imaging it was a head of tousled curly hair instead.

_Ohh, if only things were different, Sherlock. Oh, the shock!_

She made it back into the morgue and offered him the folder.

"Read it to me."

Her eye twitched fractionally, but she opened the file and started rattling off the columns of data. Sherlock continued to peer into Mr. Morgan's orifices, his gaze slightly glazed. Halfway through the information Molly realized he wasn't paying attention to her. Her jaw snapped shut and she glared without thinking at him.

"Hey, uh…Molly? Mary was wondering if you'd like to have a girls' night out soon?" John asked, catching the death glare on her face before she could control it.

Molly schooled her face into something a little less harsh as she turned to look at John. She liked John. He was a good solid man and Sherlock didn't deserve his unfailing support. She couldn't drag up an ounce of dislike for the former army doctor. If the truth ever came about she was worried the most of the effect it would have on John, especially after Sherlock's disappearing stunt last year. She could deal with Sherlock's loss of trust, because he'd figure her out again, but John's perceptions of the truth had been shattered enough.

She had vowed to be as honest as with him as she possibly could, "That sounds lovely. I'll have to text her."

"Female bonding." Sherlock chuffed, "Please refrain from 'hooking up' with any of the ghastly males Mary points out to you while you both consume enough alcohol for a water buffalo to get tossed. I am tired of constantly reminding you of your poor taste."

The eye twitch was back. John actually paled at the look on Molly's face.

"Sherlock! Do you even listen to yourself?" he croaked.

Molly swung around, slamming her hands on the metal slab that cradled the body of Mr. Morgan. Sherlock leaned back, his eyebrow arched in amusement.

"Enough!" she hissed, glaring up at him, "Get out."

He smirked, "Oh, come now, Molly. I just have your best interests at—"

"If you say 'heart' Sherlock, when you're constantly reminding everyone that you _don't have one_, I swear to God I will knee you in the bollocks. Now. Get. OUT."

Sherlock blinked down at her, shock flickering over his face. He had pushed her buttons before, but she had never responded so _violently_ before. At least, not out loud.

"Come on Sherlock!" John hurried to gather up Sherlock's things, stuffing them in his satchel.

"Molly?" Sherlock stepped toward her, only to be halted by her hand raising up between them.

"No. I'm done. I have too much work today and not enough energy to put up with your insults. Go harass someone else. You're not welcome here." She stomped over to the other side of the slab and snapped on a clean pair of rubber gloves.

Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, reluctantly letting John pull him out of the morgue by his suit sleeve. He kept his eyes trained on her until the heavy main doors swung closed behind them.

Once she was sure that they were gone, Molly ripped her gloves off again and trudged to her office for some privacy. She plopped her body down into her chair, letting her head fall into her hands.

_Way to go genius. _

Molly groaned. Her boss was totally going to kill her if she ever found out about the slip up. She wished she was kidding.

It was simply…Molly wasn't in a good place right now. She missed doing things, seeing people. She missed being in the _heat_ of things. She was happy at times with her current set up, but after three years it was just becoming too much to handle. She needed it to change.

She reluctantly stood up, unsure as to how she was going to handle the fallout from her outburst. Maybe she could convince Sherlock that she was pre-menstrual? It might work. She groaned again, reentering her autopsy room to finish up Mr. Morgan. As she put on new gloves, and set to making sure Mr. Morgan looked like he _hadn't_ had his chest split in two, she found herself labeling herself honestly.

_Molly Hooper: youngest person to double major in pathology and forensic science from Oxford _and_ work at St. Bart's. Actual age 28. Genius level intelligence. Married to her job. Animal person. In love with the idea of romance, but has a realistic approach to life. Abhors the color pink and now jumpers. Grudgingly in love with one Sherlock Holmes. Damn it. _

She jabbed the sewing needle a little bit too harshly between the rubbery flaps of Mr. Morgan's skin. How could she forget to leave out the most important detail?

_Molly Hooper: undercover agent for United Front, the world's only private international secret service._


	2. The Tangled Webs We Weave

**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for following the story! I was floored at the numbers for the first chapter! Thank you a hundred times over! And to those of you who reviewed, you warm my heart!

The ball is starting to roll a bit more. I apologize for the mistakes you find. It's 5AM here and I have been at work all night. I have the worst habit of completely skipping over necessary words in my sentences. I will review this later and tweak when I am not quite so sleep deprived!

Oh, if anyone is interested, I am on tumblr! My url starts with sgrplum and is followed by the typical tumbler address.

lady_myth has been my writing handle forever, but sgrplum is my nickname. I'd love to chat with any and everyone!

**Disclaimer: **Sooooo not mine. Kudos go to ACD and BBC!

Enjoy!

lady_myth

**Masquerade**

Chapter 2

_The Tangled Webs We Weave_

Molly trudged up the stairs to her first level flat, her arms laden with a week's worth of groceries and files from St. Bart's. She shuffled to her door, grumbling as she tried to dig out her keys without any of the plastic bags from Tesco slip from her arms.

"Bloody hell!" she winced as one bag slipped free, causing a dozen cans of tuna cans to land solidly on her foot with a large thunk. She jabbed her key into the lock, twisted the doorknob, and then kicked the door open. She bent down to snatch up the bag and dashed inside, trying to cut her cat Toby off at the pass.

The fat orange and white tom cat meowed his welcome to her, contentedly laying on the one arm of her divan couch. She glared at him.

"Of all nights you decide take your time…"

She turned to the left and entered her small kitchen, done up in white cabinets and soft green tiles. Everything in the apartment matched exactly what one would think Molly Hooper's home _should _look like. All the furniture was secondhand, a bit shabby, but in decent condition. The colors were fairly muted: light greens in the kitchen, dusty rose in the living room, pale yellow in her bedroom and bath. The place was littered with soppy books, films, and romantic pictures. Her fireplace mantle only held two portraits, both single shots of her parents. Otherwise, every surface was covered with cat knickknacks and small family trip mementos; everything from a mini Eiffel tower to an old newsboy cap that was supposed to have belonged to her father to her mother's dove leather gloves. The items in the flat had been planted years ago and Sherlock hadn't blinked twice at what had been laid out for him to deduce. It was soft, ordinary, and kind of a drab place.

It fitted her affected persona perfectly.

In Molly's opinion, she liked the divan even if it was a real faint pink with a darker pink diamond pattern embroidered on the fabric. She smirked as she recalled Sherlock's utter disgust at the piece of furniture. It wasn't sturdy and would have likely broken if he had ever decided to stand and jump on it during one of his mood swings. However, it had its advantages. He was able to stretch out comfortably, his long legs dangling only slightly over the armless end, and whether he liked it or not, the couch became one of his favored spots in the flat during his temporary stay.

Everything else about the flat could burn for all she cared. The pictures on the mantle were in fact of her grandparents, even though Sherlock had deduced and callously shared that her parents were long dead after having her late in life. He hadn't even expressed any remorse for her.

_Of course that would be too sentimental, too kind of a courtesy to extend to me. Never mind he had just thrown himself off a roof in order to keep three of his friends safe. Arsehole. _

The truth of it was her father was very much alive, well, and hopefully taking it easy in Cornwall. Lord knows that man deserved his retirement. Knowing her mother, she was probably knee deep in some remote African village, saving the world one small child at a time by dispensing vaccinations from her mobile clinic.

Molly released a wistful sigh at the thought.

She glanced over the props in her flat and checked to see if anything had been moved. It appeared that one of her mini cat figurines had moved. She sighed irritably, walked over to make sure the position hadn't been changed due to Toby's adventuring, and confirmed that it was due to _someone_ moving it. Without skipping a beat, she grabbed one of her tea light glass bowls and gently flipped it upside down over the figure. She turned around and returned to the kitchen, intent on putting away her groceries.

She smirked.

_Eat your heart out, Mycroft._

Sherlock had stayed with her for only two weeks before he'd contacted his brother. After convincing Mycroft that he was alive, his elder brother swiftly retrieved him and Molly didn't hear from either of them for months.

_Ungrateful brat. _

Afterwards though Mycroft had taken it upon himself to monitor Molly's activities via small recording devices. Apparently her role in Sherlock's little stunt marked her as interesting enough to spy on. Periodically, he would have a new device planted, but she was quick to find them. Even after almost a year, and making sure she had the most boring home life possible, she still kept finding the planted equipment. Whether he didn't trust her or he thought he was going to gather information on his younger brother, she had no idea.

The United Front probably knew but they hadn't shared and she really didn't care. If anything, it was a fun game she played with an unknowing Mycroft. That and it made her keenly aware that probably Baker street and St. Bart's was monitored.

She put away her foodstuffs and opened a can of tuna to Toby's mewling delight. During the process of unpacking one of the bags, she discovered a small cassette tape. Her eyes flickered briefly over it, noting the lack of any labeling, before pocketing it. She tossed the plastic bags, grabbed a glass, and poured herself a decent amount of wine. She calmly walked to her bathroom.

While the flat was one step above a hovel, she could boast one fine feature. Her bathroom was home to an old Victorian claw footed bathtub. It was quite possibly her favorite spot in the whole place, mostly because she was able to completely relax, lazing about in hot water and an obscene amount of bubbles. She shut and locked the door to the bathroom, a motion she'd never forego not with her job. She then reached into the tub, inserted the rubber stopper, and turned the handles so the perfect temperature of water could fill it. She placed her glass on her bathing tray and turned on her sink's faucet as well.

Once she was satisfied with the amount of noise in the room, she reached down and opened up the cabinet beneath the sink, digging far in the back to pull out a 1990s cassette Walkman. She placed the headphones on her ears and pulled the tape out of her pocket. She then carefully and quietly popped the plastic cover open and extracted the tape, inserting it into the player. Crouching down by the gushing faucet of the bathtub, she pressed down on the play button.

For several long seconds, she only heard the soft whirl of the tape spinning before the tinny sound of a guitar being strummed sounded in her ears. The audio track was scratchy and faint, like the cassette had been taped off of an ancient record player.

The voices of John Lennon and Paul McCartney faintly crooned to her, "_Two of us riding nowhere, spending someone's hard earned pay. Two of us Sunday driving, not arriving, on our way back home. We're on our way home, we're on our way home. We're going home_."

Molly just managed to cover her gasp by slapping her hand over her mouth, tears immediately pooling in her eyes. She ripped the headphones from her ears, yanked the tape out of the player, and quickly stripped off her clothes. She just managed to dunk her head underwater when the relieved sob escaped her throat, erupting in only large bubbles rather than noise.

_Oh God! They're okay! They're back! They're __**safe**__!_

She pulled her head from the water, taking in a deep but shaky breath as she tried to get her emotions under control. Her hands were shaking as she pulled out the tape from the cassette reels, destroying her first connection in nearly three years to two of the most people she knew. With each twist of the reel, her heart seemed to both ache and thrill in her chest.

_They're okay. They're here now, that's all that matters._

She snapped the tape completely from the cassette and crumpled it up, dumping it over the edge of the tub for later disposal. She sunk back down into the water, letting her muscles unwind and her thoughts turn to happier, safer memories.

**-M-**

Sherlock's long calloused fingers lightly plucked at his violin, his gaze unfocused as he wandered through the halls of his proclaimed Mind Palace. In all actuality, he was in one particular room.

A very _pink_ room.

The room was identical to the living room found in Molly's flat, the only exception was the occasional body part or lab equipment that shared space alongside with her cat figurines and chintzy travel souvenirs. He stood in the middle of this room, slowly spinning around peering carefully at the items on the shelves. His roving eyes paused over certain objects.

A tube of red lipstick. A copy of _The Treatise on International Forensic Science and Criminal Laws_. A small collection of free weights. A custom made tight-fitting black leather jacket with an absurd amount of pockets. A SWIFT trauma medical kit. And now added to this strange collection was a CD in a clear jewel case, propped on the mantle, winking at him in the soft light.

None of these things seemed to belong in this place. Not one had a proper place or proper reason to exist where they did. They didn't match in any way to what he knew of Molly Hooper.

And he _knew_ her.

His pathologist was quiet, reserved, shy, but smart. She was steadfast and loyal and surprised him at the oddest of times. She was gentle and kind, full of sentimental sloppy feelings that he couldn't bring himself to fault her for.

Not after everything she had done for him.

Sherlock Holmes may not have been outwardly that appreciative, but that didn't mean he didn't feel gratitude towards her. He knew the significant risk Molly had taken by helping him stage his death. By turning to her, he had run the risk of dragging her into the target sights of James Moriarty's organization. A simple miscalculation on their part, whether it had been the chemical Molly had concocted to slow his heart rate or by him showing his face too soon out in public, the ruse would've gone belly up and all parties involved eliminated.

She had potentially given up everything to help him. Without question, without fear, and from what he could tell, without any regret. This complicated things between them, whether she realized it or not. He acknowledged that he felt gratitude toward her. He recognized that he _owed_ her for her part in keeping his friends safe.

However, from there the thoughts in his head became…muddled.

_This is why I do not deal with feelings. Emotions are complicated. Winded. Disastrous. Illogical._

Sherlock massaged the bridge of his nose, trying to stem the surge of chemicals in his system that were triggered whenever he thought about one Molly Hooper. He shook himself and peered more intently at the out-of-place items in her room.

It didn't make sense. He would normally write them off as things that belonged to other people that Molly just happened to hold onto, but that wasn't logical. Molly lived alone. She had very few friends whom she seldom invited over. None stayed long enough to leave anything behind. She had no lovers or male companions.

His gaze narrowed as he focused on each item.

The jacket and lipstick were personal, so she had picked them out at some point. He could write them off perhaps as things purchased during a flight of fancy.

_Trying to impress someone?_ He winced as he recalled the Christmas fiasco but nodded, content with that conclusion.

The music could be from a co-worker playing a joke on her. He found that highly probable.

He could excuse the _Treatise_ as her just being curious about how rules and regulations concerning her field in other parts of the world.

The SWIFT trauma kit might be left over from her days as a medical student. However, it was of an unusually large size and he knew that it was quite expensive. It hadn't been an impulse buy and it was even less likely that a medical student would've been _given_ it.

_Perhaps she bought it right before the Fall? She may have assumed that I would have needed it._ This was a somewhat satisfying conclusion, except one could not purchase the kit at any Tesco. This pointed to more forethought than they had time for back then.

_We had less than 24 hours to concoct a plan to kill me. She barely left my side that whole night, busy building the chemical compound to slow down my respiration and heart rate. Then we had to set up the impact zone, find a suitable body double…_

Not for the first time he pondered the swiftness in which she had created the chemical. When he had outlined his plan, she had run into the lab and, without any hesitation, began to assemble the components needed to make him truly the living dead. In a little over two hours, she had handed him a small filled syringe that he would need to inject himself with before he stepped onto the roof. She had shown him another syringe, the antidote, which she would dispense as soon as he was back in the morgue. She had informed that the chemical would keep him clinically 'dead' and still for up to three hours, but after that he would actually enter into respiratory failure. The paralytic part of the compound wouldn't allow him to do anything other than slowly suffocate, fully aware of what was happening.

He had been sent to the morgue in little over an hour from when he jumped, but it had been unsettling experience nonetheless.

He shook himself again, unknowingly reaching up and tapping his fingers against his heart and mimicking the now steady beat within his chest.

He looked at the free weights and frowned.

It would've been easy to say that Molly had purchased the set with the intent to get into shape but that she'd never followed through. However, he could see the tell-tale nicks and dents on the edges of the weights, showing they had been lifted and dropped often. The handles were shiny, polished from sweaty palms.

It didn't compute. The person who handled those weights would be strong, dexterous, and slim. Molly was slim, but she hardly had any strength from what he could tell. He knew her hands, wrists, and forearms were quite strong, but those were the major limbs and muscles groups utilized in her field. Granted she kept her body under wraps beneath the oddest jumpers in existence. Her trousers were always loose, allowing ease of movement. The only time he had seen her in anything semi-revealing was when she had worn the cocktail dress to John and his' Christmas party. Based on that image, he would immediately eliminate her as the user of the weights.

However, that would mean the weights would have a layer of dust on them, even if she had bought them used. And these _hadn't._

It had been well over a year since the party, so she _could_ have started using them. He hadn't seen her in anything form-fitting since. The two weeks he had briefly lived with her, she had walked around in either her work clothes or a large plush robe that seemed to swallow her up. Her sleepwear had consisted of extra-large t-shirts and lounge pants.

_Conceivably, she _could_ be using the weights. This requires further research._

He sighed, coming to the overall conclusion that the items could be deducted into the items could be deducted into excusable patterns of behavior. However, it didn't sit well with him.

He _felt off _about all of it.

He scoffed.

The violin was yanked from his hands.

"—ARE YOU EVEN BLOODY LISTENING TO ME?" John roared in his face, causing Sherlock to blink dazedly for a moment.

John tossed the violin back at him, causing Sherlock to fumble a bit before he could grasp the Stradivarius.

"John, _do_ be careful!" Sherlock hissed, clutching at the violin possessively.

It was one of the notoriously missing 17 Strads (six others which he knew the locations of). This one he had liberated from a pompous collector that had no business keeping such a beautiful thing out of the reach of an appreciative musician. Conveniently, his had happened to be one that had been stolen before, putting the collector in the unfavorable spot of being unable to report it missing to the authorities.

It still brought a smirk to his face whenever he recalled that particular adventure.

"I can't believe you! Can you _not_ be a complete _git_ for _one day_?" John ranted, stomping around the room.

"What are you nattering on about?"

John whipped around, his face flushed red, "I'm talking about Molly!"

Sherlock looked bored, "What about her?"

John stared in disbelief at the detective. His shoulders slumped forward and he ran a hand roughly over his face.

"Why do I bother?" he muttered.

"Speak up!" Sherlock commanded. Land's sake, if the doctor wanted his attention the least he could do was not mumble.

"For Christ's sake! I was just demanding why you can't be a bit nicer to Molly?"

Sherlock huffed, "I am nice to Molly!"

John laughed without humor, "You? _Nice?_ You order her around like she's your personal servant, demanding that you fetch her coffee and whatever menial tasks you come up with! She's a God damn _doctor_! Then you insult her and Mary about enjoying a night together _and_ her taste in men!"

Sherlock smirked, "Ah! You're being defensive on _Mary's_ behalf! I was only—"

John thrust a shaking finger into Sherlock's face, "No! No, no, no! That is _not_ what I am doing! I am trying to get you to understand that you're _hurting_ Molly! You're _disrespecting_ her! Do you understand that? Does it matter at all to you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off again.

"She's your _friend_, Sherlock! Like how _I_ am!"

"I know that," Sherlock grumbled, "I can't help it if what I say is construed as socially—"

John threw his hands up in the air, "Unbelievable! Aren't you worried at all? Molly _kicked_ us out! What happens if it's _permanent_?"

Sherlock's eyes widened as he comprehended what John was getting at, "Oh."

"Yes! One would think you would treat her a bit more gently, especially after all that she's done for you! But no! You continue steam rolling right over her! It'll serve you right if you never get access to St. Bart's again!"

"That won't happen." Sherlock countered, "Mycroft."

"Sod Mycroft! Molly's still there!" John argued, "She still matters when it comes to how quickly your lab results are processed! She still counts because she has to fill out all of the paperwork when you pull a body out of queue! She still counts because she's the BLOODY REASON YOU AND I ARE STILL HERE ALIVE!"

Sherlock actually managed to look sheepish. He pulled his legs up and onto the seat, resting the Strad on his knees.

"I see your point."

John grumbled unintelligibly, rolling his eyes several times.

Sherlock's long fingers tapped lightly against the body of the violin.

"I suppose it would be in my best interest to…make it up to her?"

John collapsed into his chair, releasing a long sigh.

"Brilliant, Holmes."

Sherlock frowned. After a moment, he hopped up from his seat. He tucked his violin under his arm and hurried toward his bedroom.

John watched him from over the top of his chair.

"What are you off to now?" he demanded perplexed.

"Getting coffee!"


End file.
